


A Note That Kills

by lesbianlawliets



Category: Death Note (Live Action TV), Kiss that Kills
Genre: Hopefully Slow Burn, Host Clubs, L and Light are hosts and they hunt down kira together, M/M, Minor Character Death, and maybe fall in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-08-06 16:57:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16391594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianlawliets/pseuds/lesbianlawliets
Summary: L "Eight" Lawliet is a host at Narcissus, a popular Tokyo club. When his coworker dies mysteriously, he's replaced by new hire Yagami Light.





	1. Carmen

**Author's Note:**

> This is a crossover of the live action Todome no Kiss and the live action Death Note, although you don't necessarily need to know anything about Todome no Kiss to understand this fic. It can be read on its own.

L Lawliet sits alone in the one room he can call his: a dark, four-hundred-square-foot studio apartment dead in the center of downtown Kabukichō, Tokyo. The only lighting he has on comes from the muted glowing of the television and his open laptop. The laptop screen shows some thirty tabs, all emails and newspaper reports and Google documents shared with detectives.

L sighs quietly. The sound is returned with empty silence, nothing but the bustle of the city six floors below. 

His phone vibrates. L glances at the device with something a little less than irritation.

> Message from: Mello  
>  8, you coming to Narcissus tonight? You’ve been requested. 

L fires off an affirmative response and then stands. He takes his glasses off, setting them delicately beside his laptop and a book, open and overturned on the table. In twenty minutes, he’s cleaned up quite nicely; he’s styled his dark waves of hair into something that looks well-maintained, changed out of the dirty white sweater and worn gray joggers, and brushed his teeth. He will be rather close to a handful of lucky women’s faces tonight, so he might as well do the polite thing and smell nice before he robs them for everything they’ve got. 

The walk to the club is short, maybe fifteen minutes. L walks on autopilot, walks and thinks of ten things at once, all running through his head like a perpetual motion machine. Rent is due on the fifth, and so are the utilities and internet bill. He should send his mom a check, too. Three women he met at the club have arranged dates with him this coming week. He should send for a personal shopper to bring groceries soon, although the last time he ate is fuzzy with inebriation and L can’t quite recall why his stomach churns when he thinks of food now. Perhaps he ate something foul at the club. Whatever the reason, L has stomached nothing but Lucky Charge biscuits and jelly pouches for four days.

L enters Club Narcissus from the back, the employee entrance, avoiding the eager gaze of the customers before he even lets the manager know he’s there. L pushes the thick red curtain aside, stepping into the locker room. There’s two other hosts chattering to each other— they’re new, and L won’t bother learning their names unless they continue working another six months. Or if they try to steal any of his faithful customers. 

His locker is locked with two padlocks. He turns both dials to the correct numbers and pulls them down to unlock them with a click. L shrugs off his heavy winter coat and hangs it up, stuffing it in the small space. He glances in his reflection in the mirror, checking for anything unsightly, and is vaguely satisfied with what the mirror shows him. A few birthmarks dot his cheeks like constellations, and L’s face is free of any blemishes that seem to torture his fellow hosts. L can hear one of the new hosts groaning about an oily skin issue. 

Tuning them out, L fixes his hair a bit before he finally sets out into the main entertainment room. 

Inside the main room of Narcissus, there are several restaurant-style tables set up along three of the walls and the windows. Each table is draped with white tablecloths and decorated with vases and roses at each table. There are also two large seating areas in the shape of half-circles, side by side. One of these long red couches is occupied by six young ladies and four hosts, three of which L recognizes. The other is empty, waiting for L and his women. L crosses the black-tiled dance floor, meaning to stop at the bar for the first time tonight.

“Eight!” A loud, calloused voice comes from L’s left. 

L smiles crookedly at his manager. “Roger,” he says, by way of greeting. 

“The lovely Miss Haruka is waiting for your usual dinner date at table three.” Roger informs. “And later tonight you’re to entertain a group of foreigners that are coming in for a bachelorette party. They made a reservation, asked for the two most popular hosts.”

L rolls his eyes and then glances over the floor of people curiously. “Who is the other? Ippei quit last week, didn’t he?” 

Roger gives L a nervous, twitchy smile. His forehead always sweats when he talks to L. It’s repulsive. “That would be our new hire, Yagami. The ladies have taken to calling him by his given name, Light.” 

“Light,” L repeats, letting it roll on his tongue like a curse, or an insult. “Peculiar.” 

“Yes, it’s very interesting,” Roger coughs into his hand like he knows somehow that it’ll irk L. “Miss Haruka is waiting, Eight. Don’t dawdle.” 

L doesn’t say anything else. He continues his trek to the bar first, downing a shot of whiskey with visible disgust; anyone working the bar knows L hates to drink despite how much he often does for his work. The taste of liquor is just awful, and champagne is much easier to pretend to enjoy. Then he’s off— He waves a friendly, smiling ‘hello’ to a few fellow hosts and their customers who recognize him. _Eight,_ they say, _We need to see each other again soon!_

L brushes them off politely, and then greets his first customer of the night. Haruka has been coming to Narcissus for six months now and has been exclusively requesting Eight for five of them. L sees her perhaps once a week, twice if she’s truly feeling lonely for some company, which L gives her willingly in exchange for champagne and gifts. L is wearing a Michael Kors watch from her currently; he always wears this watch on Thursdays when Haruka comes in. It’s silver, studded with tiny diamonds beneath the glass. L has six more watches like it at home.

“Miss Haruka,” L smiles warmly and hugs her like he’s been longing for her. “Sorry to keep you waiting, I got stuck helping out at my other job.” 

“Oh, Eight. Always so willing to help,” Haruka chides. “You really need to learn to stop being so kind!” 

“I know, I know,” L sighs, squeezing Haruka around the waist before he pulls away and sits across from her. 

“What are we having tonight?” The waiter asks. He has a uniform, a black button up and black slacks with a red tie. Unlike the waiters, the hosts dress as they like.

“Cristal, please,” She says. L beams and takes her hand across the table. One of their most expensive wines, a generous percentage going under his name for tip out tonight. 

When Haruka has bought a second bottle of Cristal, L decides it’s about time to wrap things up. He has a bachelorette party to entertain, and although Haruka is very generous, he finds himself concerned. He doesn’t want his own earnings to fall short due to some new hire. He hasn’t even seen this Light Yagami yet, and he’s eager to put a face to the bizarre name. L hopes it’s a nickname, for Yagami’s sake— it’s a strange name. 

They’re halfway through the bottle and L guzzles his glass of wine as quickly as he can without Haruka noticing that he’s rushing her. He helps her slide her coat on before giving her a kiss on the cheek. “Take care, Haruka. It’s very cold tonight.” 

Haruka flushes demurely, mumbling an _Eight_ , and L sees her out. 

“Great job, Eight!” Roger is there suddenly, invading L’s personal space. L takes two abrupt steps back. “Good with the customers as always!”

“Where is Yagami?” L asks, already visibly annoyed by Roger’s presence. They get along, in the loosest sense of the phrase; L deals with Roger and Roger thinks they’re friends. 

“Light is-” 

“Is that him, there?” L points, not so subtly, at a light-haired man across the dance floor. He’s decently tall, with hair more auburn than brown that’s past his ears. L can’t see his face, as he’s facing a young woman that L has definitely seen at the club before. “He doesn’t look so impressive. You have dull taste in men, Roger.” 

“He’s attractive to the women, Eight, and that’s what is important.” Roger replies.

“I suppose it’s time we introduce ourselves?” It isn’t a question, not really, and if Roger answers L doesn’t hear him. He’s already making his way across the shiny black tile. L can see his own reflection in it as he walks. 

“Yagami Light?” L asks, interrupting his conversation. 

“Oh, hello Eight! I was just telling Light how much fun he’s going to have working here! All of you always seem to be having a blast!” The woman says cheerfully.

“I see. Indeed, Narcissus is an interesting place to work,” L allows. 

“You’re Eight,” Yagami Light says, cleverly. 

“I am.” L glances Light over, sizing him up. 

"You can call me Light," he says, extending his hand out, but when he's met with an unwavering stare in return, he slowly lowers it back to his side. 

"How do you write it?" L inquires.

Light shakes his head. "You use the kanji for 'moon', but it's read as Light."

“Odd,” L says, without elaborating any further on the statement. Light frowns. 

“So, we’re working together tonight.” Light changes the subject. 

“Mm.” L nods, suddenly more interested. He looks at Light with a wide-eyed stare, almost unblinking. “Just how long has Light been doing this? I am rather excellent at my job, I’d hate for my reputation to be tarnished because I was paired up with a new host.”

Light’s frown simmers into a glare. “Long enough. I used to work at another club, you might know it— Vision?”

“I see. Vision is a fine club,” L says, and it’s a dismissal of the topic. By L’s standards, Light is completely useless.

At that moment, a moderately sized group of women enters the club. When the last one has filed in excitedly, L counts: six women for them to entertain, or more accurately six women for L to entertain. He hopes Light isn’t utterly hopeless, although his attitude suggests he won’t be very attractive to the ladies. Women don’t like men that talk like Light does, self-centered and pretentious. Of course some might say that L himself is self-centered and pretentious, but that’s how L can tell Light is the same.

“Good evening, ladies. You all speak English, right?” L smiles at the group. His English is nearly flawless, and he hardly has an accent. “You can call me Eight. What are your names?”

The women introduce themselves before Light can even catch up with L.

“Hello,” One of the women smiles bashfully at Light as he strides up behind L.

“Hello,” Light says in English, giving her a charming look. He holds out a hand. “My name is Light.” 

“Beth.” The girl delicately places her hand in Light’s. She’s wearing a t-shirt that says, in pink cursive English: BRIDE. 

With that, their party begins. L leads everyone to his usual couch and chats up three of the bridesmaids while Light deals with the bride and the two remaining bridesmaids. Margaritas are ordered early on, and after that there are countless refills. The bride purchases a bottle of wine, a cheap one, and L feels a smug satisfaction when two of his bridesmaids order the “Wandering Poet” sake and the Hibiki wine, both rather expensive. As long as Light didn’t interact with his customers too much, there wouldn’t be any effect on L’s tip out. 

When the ladies call a cab, it’s well past two in the morning. L wishes all of the women a wonderful vacation and the bride a beautiful wedding before they go. 

“Let’s get out of here!” A host by the door exclaims as the last of the guests leaves and he locks the door. 

“Agreed,” Light says, looking tired. L almost pities him; Light must be new at this if he’s exhausted by a late night shift. L stopped sleeping at night years ago. 

“Roger. My money.” L says, and it’s a demand rather than a request. Roger sighs and opens the register. Tonight, L has earned an impressive tip out, more than any of the other hosts. L doesn’t stay to gloat however, taking his cash and heading to the locker room. 

As L pulls open his padlocks, the heavy red velvet curtain is shoved aside. It’s Light, looking irate. 

“You know, you’re supposed to split tip outs if you share a party.” Light states.

“I don’t share the money I earn with my work. Perhaps if Light was better at his job, he wouldn’t be griping about it.” L drawls, and Light glowers, trudging towards his own locker. It’s locked with a simple combination lock. Light spins the dial to the correct combination before the locker opens. 

“It’s incredibly rude,” Light seems to have not even registered what L said. “I’ll be talking to the manager.”

L smirks. “Roger is useless. Good luck with that.”

Light gives a huff of a sigh as the rest of the hosts come filing in past the curtain. 

Jinnouchi, a host who has been around on-and-off for about a year, slaps Light on the back. “Good work, new hire. Most of us don’t bother working with Eight, he’s so stubborn.”

“I’m not stubborn,” L snaps. “I just don’t settle like all of you do.” 

This sparks an uproar of laughter and jabs at L’s poor attitude, which L ignores as he slides on his winter coat. It’s nice, a Canada Goose parka plump with goose down feathers. L adjusts the watch around his wrist like it bothers him to wear it, and then shoulders past Light Yagami as if the new hire isn’t even there.


	2. Beautiful People Beautiful Problems

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to those who left kudos on the first chapter!

Nighttime is bitter cold, but there’s no snow on the ground yet. When L looks up at the dark gray sky, the clouds are swollen and look prepared to burst at any moment. L returns to his flat, bundled up tight in his coat, zipped up all the way to his chin. His hand trembles slightly as he unlocks his door. He’ll remember his gloves for tomorrow night.

He changes first, into that same dirty white sweater and gray joggers from earlier today. He takes out his contacts and puts his glasses on, sighing in relief as he finally feels comfortable again. 

L counts his tip out for today: a ¥5600 gift card to Nordstrom from Haruka, a little thank you payment for his last personal visit, and some ¥34000 in tip out cash. It isn’t his best work, but it’s a Thursday night, and tomorrow will be better. He unlocks the safe he’s put on a bookshelf against the wall, placing the gift card and the cash inside before locking the safe again. 

L spends the rest of his night organizing payments; he transfers the money necessary for rent and utilities to his payment card account, then sets up a direct deposit of ¥56000 to be delivered to his mother’s bank account. He clicks the confirm payment button with distaste — sending her money always feels like a waste. She’s using it for drugs, but perhaps this time she’ll buy food with it and pay for her medications. It isn’t as if L has any say in the matter. He hasn’t spoken to her in years. He puts away his money, locking his safe again. 

L tries to sleep. Instead, he examines his studio: the way the television, which is on for background noise, lights the curtains. The room is dark, the sun unable to disturb him as it rises through his blackout curtains, and the television tints everything a deep blue. There’s a film noir on this morning, a mystery, and L listens to it absently from his futon.

> “You don't want the truth. You make up your own truth! Like your police file. It was complete when I gave it to you. Who took out the 12 pages?”  
>  “You, probably.”  
>  “No, it wasn’t me. See, it was you!”  
>  “Why would I do that?”  
>  “To create a puzzle you could never solve!”

  
The room is bathed in white light, flashing. L squints, then sits up to reach for the remote. A blonde reporter holds an earpiece to her ear as wind blows her hair wildly.

“A tragedy in Tokyo,” She says, “A body has been found in Kabukicho, Shinjuku. Now identified as Ippei Toki, the body was found early this morning hanging in the deceased’s kitchen. Neighbors and coworkers say they haven't seen or heard from Ippei for the last seven days. Emergency services report that the body has in fact been decaying likely for a week now.”

L blinks and then rips his phone off the charging cable. He dials Roger. 

It rings four times. 

“Eight?” Roger’s deep voice crackles over the phone line. “Eight, you must have heard — I know you were acquaintances with Ippei.”

“You said he quit.” L states, not bothering with a greeting. Roger isn’t phased.

“Well, when someone doesn’t show up for days, it’s usually safe to assume they’ve quit.” Roger reasons. “Eight, I’m sorry. I need to go. Feel free to stay home tonight.” 

The line goes dead. 

L scoffs. The sound feels suffocating in the cluttered emptiness of the studio, and suddenly L needs to go. He clambers out of the futon, leaving it unmade. L pulls on his parka again and stuffs his phone and his wallet into deep pockets. He kicks off his slippers and pulls on a pair of heavy laced boots before heading out into the early morning. The film noir keeps playing. 

L approaches the apartment, striding with confidence despite the crowds of police officers and detectives swarming the area. With a suicide, it’s always investigated thoroughly to ensure there was no foul play. 

It wasn’t a suicide, however. Ippei would not have offed himself. This much, L is absolutely sure of. 

“Hold on, hold on,” A young officer bars L with his arm from the open entrance to the scene. “You aren’t supposed to be here, sir.” 

“My name is Mori Munemitsu, I was sent by the office to bring a message to one of our detectives.” L says, unblinking. He’s never seen this officer before; he must be new. 

“Which detective?” The rookie asks quizzically, suspicious.

“Ige.” L replies. With that, despite the obvious surprise that L seems to be a legitimate messenger, the officer steps aside. 

“Be quick,” he snaps, as if he’s irritated about letting L inside.

“Thank you.” 

L has been here before, twice. Once, helping Ippei get home after he drank too much that night, and the second time to borrow a few movies on cassette. They shared that interest, old films. Or shared, L supposes. Ippei is dead now. 

L snoops around subtly, acting like he has a purpose here by taking out a small spiral notepad and scribbling down notes. In chicken scratch handwriting, L marks down the date and the time the body was found from what he remembers from the news broadcast. 

He slips past a detective and two more officers speaking in hushed tones to look inside the kitchen. A stool is overturned in the middle of the white tiled floor, marked with a yellow tag labelled “3”. The noose still hangs from the ceiling fan, loosened. The sight of it doesn’t perturb L. There’s a completely empty bottle of sleeping pills sitting on the kitchen counter, flagged as “2”. L raises an eyebrow and writes all three of these things down, then examines the ingredients of the sleeping pills on the label:

> **Loxonin S**  
>  Active Ingredients (per 1 tablet):  
>  Loxoprofen sodium 68.1mg  
>  Inactive ingredients: Hydroxypropyl cellulose, magnesium stearate, lactose hydrate, anhydrous ferric oxide.  
> 

  


L sets the bottle back on the counter. Loxonin can be fatal if someone were to take a high enough dose, but L doubts that Ippei would try to overdose if he was hanging himself.

He’s seen enough of the kitchen. He steps out, wandering into Ippei’s bedroom. It’s messy, but from what he sees in here and what he saw in the living area there are no signs of foul play. 

All the evidence points to suicide. L isn’t satisfied with this. They’re missing something, there’s a piece of the puzzle that’s been stolen.

L goes back home. There’s nothing more to see here.

L arrives at Narcissus somewhere around eleven p.m., purposely late so as not to have to interact with any of his coworkers in the locker room. He goes unnoticed at he slips in through the back entrance and into the locker room. Stuffing his coat into his locker, L then takes a swig of the liquor he has stored there. A customer gave it to him a long time ago, he just never got around to finishing the bottle. It’s tart and burns as it goes down. The burn fades into a spreading warmth that melts the biting cold from outside. 

L fixes his wind blown hair in the mirror inside his locker door, then begins his walk to the main floor of the club. The thick red velvet of the curtain as he pushes it aside is so familiar, it’s almost as if Ippei never died. It’s almost as if he never existed, L muses as he looks over the club full of women and their hosts. 

“Eight,” Roger’s voice creaks as he greets L not even ten steps from the curtain. “I said to take the night off.” 

“You said, ‘feel free to stay home’. I did not want to waste a Friday night for no reason.” L states briskly. Roger clears his throat. 

“Most people would take that to mean not to come in.” Roger says, frowning at L.

L waves him off, abruptly cutting the conversation off short as he walks away.

“Hello,” L says when he approaches a customer, voice honeyed and with an irritability that goes undetected. Other hosts have praised L in the past for never letting his feelings cloud his work. L has always regarded the praise with distaste; emotions and feelings shouldn’t exist in this work. In fact, L regards most displays of emotion with distaste. 

The night goes smoothly for the most part. He scams several women into buying a few bottles of wine. One cannot afford to pay, and L’s kind demeanor twists into visible disgust. He alerts Roger and moves on. An hour of time, wasted. 

“Eight?” Light’s voice. It’s silvery and pleasant in a way that sounds false.

“Light,” L replies, not bothering to greet Light properly or even turn around. Light has to walk around L to face him.

“I heard a friend of yours passed away. That’s really awful, my condolences.” Light smiles gently at L. 

L narrows his eyes. “Ippei was barely an acquaintance. No need for condolences, no matter how perfunctory.” 

“Perfunctory.” Light is openly offended. 

“Yes. Do I need to define it for you?” L asks, although it isn’t really an offer.

“I know what perfunctory means. I’ll have you know I graduated top of my--” 

“Frankly, I don’t care about Light’s education and whether he can define a word. I am quite busy.” L dismisses. As he begins to walk away, Light’s hand shoots out to grip L’s wrist. 

Light scowls. “I graduated top of my class, and you’re what again? A high school burn out? You might know some extensive vocabulary and you can act better than everyone else, but the truth of the matter is that you’re here. Hosting. Just like the rest of us.” 

L twists his hand in a circle towards Light’s thumb, breaking the hold. L recalls the next few moments in glimpses: his foot, hooking on the inside of Light’s ankle. Light’s fist, connecting with the delicate bones around L’s left eye. Roger breaking them apart, looking absolutely horrified at the scene. 

L separates from Roger and Light quickly, stalking off to the locker room to examine his injury. His face throbs and adrenaline pumps through him in time with his pulse. L is pressing delicately on the slowly swelling area and looking in the mirror in his locker when both Light and Roger enter. 

“Eight,” Roger starts.

“Roger, if you don’t leave me be I will leave to work at another establishment and I’ll take my customers with me.” L bluffs. His tone bites and leaves Roger looking sore.

“I was only trying to be nice,” Light says, crossing his arms. 

“Nice,” L scoffs. “Ippei and I were not anything more than acquaintances, and neither are we, so please let me do my work next time instead of getting in my way.”

“Getting in your way?” Light bristles. Before he has a chance to puff up his chest, L is shrugging on his coat. 

“Roger, I will collect my tip out tomorrow night.” L says, and the door closes loudly behind him.


	3. Mariner's Apartment Complex

L wakes the next day with a splitting headache. His head throbs in time with his heartbeat, ba dump, ba dump, ba dump. The light from the television makes the pain sharper, so L reaches a clumsy hand out to grab the remote and shut it off. Relief comes in a wave; the pain dulls a bit.

L slowly sits up, eyes squeezed shut. The alarm clock reads eleven in the morning. Blindly, L feels around in the dark for his phone. L grimaces at the brightness of his screen. He texts Roger, informs him that he doesn’t intend on coming in today and instructs him to keep his money safe. L isn’t sure he trusts Roger to do so, but perhaps for once Roger won’t be completely useless.  
Setting his phone down, L reaches for a pill bottle left open beside the futon and shakes three painkillers out of it. He washes them down with water from an old plastic bottle set beside the pills. He scoots to the edge of the futon and boots his computer up. The screen tints the dark room blue. L squints in pain, turning down the brightness as soon as he types his password in. The blue light is familiar to him, comforting despite his migraine. 

L is a man of routine. He starts every day the same, takes his tea the same way, wears the same tattered sweats until he goes into work at night. He occasionally hears his mother’s voice, chiding: _When’s the last time you washed those pants? Give them to me, I’ll take care of it._  


L doesn’t take kindly to these thoughts. 

His email is empty: no eviction warnings, no debt collectors demanding responses, no psychiatrists informing him that his mother is in whatever care facility now. L moves on to a different account, one with a jumbled assortment of letters and numbers as the first and last name. It translates to something, but L doesn’t worry about anyone figuring that out. It’s through this email that L has become notorious among the precinct of Tokyo -- this is the email he sends his anonymous tips through. Today there’s an email from the chief of police.

> Ryuzaki,  
>  Thank you for your tip on the Okinawa case; it was vital to our detectives solving it. You have rejected our offers for rewards for your work repeatedly, so instead we would like to offer you a more professional way to do your work. We would be honored if you would join our team and be a full-time detective--

L doesn’t read any further.There’s no need to waste his time. He replies:  


> Detective Kenzo,  
>  I have to decline, thank you. 
> 
> Ryuzaki.

  
Next, L moves on to checking the news. He turns his television on, switching the channel to the local news and then opens several tabs on his computer. He looks through several news websites, listening to the daily news as he does. There’s no interesting stories after fifteen minutes of searching, when normally he finds at least one. Perhaps it’s a slow day for crime. He stays perched at the edge of his futon like that for a long while, hardly moving, eyes flicking between the television and his computer screen. Eventually, he gets up to make tea.

L carefully maneuvers around stacks of books, files, newspapers, and magazines littered around the flat. He doesn’t often throw things out, mostly out of a neurotic worry that he might need them for something in the future. The kitchenette is tiny; it barely fits a stove, microwave, and a sink. Dishes pile up in the sink, and he’s set an open, half-full garbage bag beside the overflowing garbage can. L doesn’t clean much, either. He microwaves the water for his tea, steeps it, and then proceeds to dump an unsightly amount of sugar into the cup. When he’s finished sweetening it, it’s too full to carry. He bends at the hip to slurp some of it without picking it up. 

Paranoia laps at the edges of his thoughts. L surveys the dark apartment critically, like he can see anything in the dim blue lighting. He needs his glasses. 

He slips past piles of books and newspapers, picking up his discarded glasses along the way. The mess is organized, or so L would claim. L slides his glasses up the bridge of his nose and sits on the futon, setting his tea down beside his keyboard. With his glasses on, he can more efficiently examine the room around him; nothing has been disturbed. Nothing is different. 

The feeling of eyes on his skin lingers so he stands, mug in hand. There’s enough space in the apartment for him to easily walk along the wall. The only things he’s brought into the flat are his futon mattress, the blackout curtains, and the cluttered stacks on stacks on stacks of papers despite having lived here for so long.

Ippei comes to mind. L runs through the case absently in his head, recalls the scene of the suicide. There’s no evidence to the cause of death being anything but just that, a suicide, but for some reason L isn’t satisfied with this. The sensation of eyes watching him dissipates, so he takes another noisy slurp of syrupy tea before he takes it back to the futon. He sets the mug on the hardwood floor beside his keyboard as he settles again at the edge of the mattress.  


Still, a feeling nags at L. Still, he feels as if he’s not finished.  


Here is what L knows: Ippei died seven days ago. Instead of coming to his own conclusion, L believed Roger and assumed Ippei had quit. L’s lip curls in a grimace. L feels he is very self-aware, more so than other people. He doesn’t believe in factoring emotions into decision making -- it only leads to regret.  
L moved here one year ago, after his last eviction. L took this as a much needed wake up call; he’d been stagnant for far too long there and let his mother confuse him. Being around her always confused him, always clouded his judgement. L believed in things he could touch, things that were fact. She believed in true love, in finding silver linings, and in people talking inside the walls. So L left, signing a lease further from inner city and dropping off the map. He told no one where he was going, told no one he was moving. 

However, the fact that L believed Roger instead of coming to his own conclusions unsettles L. L doesn’t want to rely on anyone, let alone a fumbling, sweaty idiot like Roger. Sipping his tea, L decides: he needs to leave Kabukicho. He should leave, cut all strings that have attached to his existence, find some other host club to work for. No one will know him, and that idea soothes the gears turning in L’s mind enough for him to relax a bit and enjoy his now cooling tea.

Still thinking about Ippei, L lifts his notepad and skims the notes scrawled on the page. His writing is chicken scratch, barely legible. He only wrote down things like loxonin s? and no sign of struggle in kitchen/bed and found hanging in kitchen. It isn’t as if L needed detailed notes, his memory never failed him.

L clicks around on his computer for a few moments, logging into a database covered in the Tokyo NPA logo. Recently, he figured out the NPA chief’s passcode into the database, giving him unrestricted access to any files he pleases. For now, he scans the folders until he finds one labelled “IPPEI”.  


The report reads:

  


IPPEI TOKI  
AGE: 22 SEX: M  
BIRTH DATE: 08/30/1996  
DEATH DATE: 09/26/2018

Body found after a neighbor called the police to inform the deceased was missing. Detective IGE found the body hanging from kitchen ceiling fan. Other notes: bottle of pills found empty on counter beside body. No evidence of struggle.

CORONER’S REPORT: 

The case is presented as follows. IPPEI TOKI’s dead body was found hanged by ligature in neck in his apartment home’s kitchen. The ligature material used was nylon rope. Autopsy was done by a three member medical board. Histopathological examination of soft tissue under ligature mark and chemical examination of viscera was also done. Evidence of heart failure was found, although the board gave opinion in favour of antemortem hanging which was suicidal in nature.The deceased was a 22 year old male with no significant medical history. Upon emergency medical service arrival, patient was declared dead at the scene.

DESCRIPTION OF GROSS LESIONS: 

EXTERNAL EXAMINATION: The body is that of a 22 year old well developed, well nourished male. There is no peripheral edema of the extremities. Ligature mark and significant bruising of the neck, beneath the chin. Furrow from noose above the larynx. Surgical scar from appendix removal. The patient has no other major surgical scars. 

INTERNAL EXAMINATION (BODY CAVITIES): The right and left pleural cavity contains 10 ml of clear fluid with no adhesions.  
HEART: Autopsy showed congestion and edema characteristic of heart failure and an enlarged heart. 

TOX SCREENING: Came back negative for recreational and prescription drugs. 

CAUSE OF DEATH: ASPHYXIATION (1), SUICIDE BY HANGING (2).  


L’s eyes widen curiously. Despite Ippei’s autopsy pointing to signs of heart failure, the coroner overlooked it and only stated the cause of death as hanging. 

What are the odds of a healthy young adult having sudden heart failure, just as he was hanging himself?

L stands and begins pacing again. He holds his cold tea if only to have something occupying his hands. It’s grounding to hold the weight of it. L paces for a long while, round and round the small apartment like it’s a track. L imagines black asphalt and white lines painted crisp. L feels wound up, thoughts running through his head at a rapid speed. Did Ippei die first of a heart attack or his hanging? Did someone come across his body and panic, covering it up by faking a suicide? Was Ippei murdered?

L spends the next several days this way, thoughts running wild as he returns to his work. Despite how understimulating his work can feel at times, it gives him something to occupy his time with. L sells six bottles of wine a few nights later and almost forgets about Ippei. Almost. When the night is over and the other hosts are chattering and bickering in the locker room, L is overwhelmed with frustration. The noise and his exhaustion overwhelm his senses, and he thinks: this is a plateau. This is stagnancy, this isn’t just. Ippei did not commit suicide. Along with this decision, L comes to another conclusion; he should leave Kabukicho as soon as he is financially able. As he slides on his goose down winter coat, he makes up his mind. 

Firstly, he will give himself thirty days to solve Ippei’s case. 

Secondly, after thirty days L will drop the case and move away from the city.

Knowing he has a deadline, the knot in L’s stomach unravels and he feels, for the first time in days, at peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave a comment or kudos if you enjoyed my work!

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave kudos or comment if you enjoyed reading this!


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